


In The Icy Air

by primeideal



Category: Zombies in the Snow (fictional movie)
Genre: F/M, Sebald Code, Snow and Ice, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:32:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1279624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left to fend for herself, Gerta must rise to the challenge and take on hordes of zombies!</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Icy Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storm_queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_queen/gifts).



Gerta and Young Rolf had been on the run for what felt like weeks. Some days they were able to run through the empty roads, and other days they walked slowly. When Gerta had gotten chills, Rolf had huddled next to her for a while, but she pulled back. He contented himself with walking a few steps ahead, leaving big footprints so that she could hop among them without getting any more snow down her socks.

“Let's stop here,” Young Rolf suggested, nodding at what seemed to be a rundown bar.

“We can keep going,” said Gerta, “if you think it's safer.”

“You need to eat.”

“They'll be eating us, if we're not careful.”

Rolf nodded. “Tell you what. I think I saw an outhouse, behind that last mile marker. You hide out there, and if there's anything edible, I'll bring something back, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Gerta. “Take care.”

“Of course. You too.”

Gerta hugged him, and he hugged back, but she paused and pulled away. “Hurry,” she said, “before it gets much darker.”

“Right. Follow my tracks, okay? As far as the turnoff.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

Gerta leapt from one set of footprints to the next, gliding and skipping all the way to the mile marker. There, off the road, was the outhouse in the distance. She paused, wondering whether the dead tree limb on the ground would serve as a weapon.

Better than nothing. She picked it up, and found that even if there wasn't anything to fend off, it helped sink into the snow, giving her leverage as she made her way to the door. Then, she pushed at the door with the stick; it gave way, and she pushed it all the way open. Finding it empty, she jumped inside, slammed the door shut, and set the stick behind the door, as if to bolt it closed. It wouldn't lock, but maybe it'd give her a few seconds' notice if anyone came knocking.

So, she waited. And waited. She found herself using the outhouse once, then twice—it couldn't have been an hour later. Maybe it could have. She wanted to run, but they'd been running for so long, and she'd need her strength— _No_ , she told herself, _Rolf will show up, if I just keep still._

He would have to come. The alternative was unthinkable. But she couldn't sleep, couldn't be caught unawares; there wasn't enough space to lie down, anyway. Gerta tried to recall the names and faces of the people from her hometown, back when there was nothing to divide them except the price of milk. Tried to remember their voices, as they'd gone sledding or played pond hockey together. Or even to remember summer—but it was a far-off fantasy, as surreal as hordes of the undead must have once seemed. It didn't take any effort, to forget.

Gradually, Gerta began to feel warm. At first she assumed that, after much effort, she had finally managed to recollect summer. But the sensation was too real. Grabbing the stick in one hand, she pried the door open, and stared out at the sunrise. She'd been there all night. And Rolf hadn't come.

She turned back to the outhouse one last time, gagging, but nothing came up. So much the better—it would be a poor betrayal of Rolf's hopeless attempt to get food, if she spit up in panic, waiting for him. She had to keep moving—it was what he would have done.

So she walked back to the road, then turned to go back the way she'd come. No, the way _they'd_ come, before. A layer of wind had blown over the footprints, obscuring them, and she had to clear her own path.

For the first few days, she moved away from any noise she heard, trusting in what few nuts she could rummage from the woods or food left to go bad in empty houses. It tasted foul, but it stayed down. By the third or fourth day of walking, however, she was ready to find someone else to team up with. The grief had subsided, by and large, and she didn't feel like it would be reckless to charge in at someone on the grounds she had nothing left to lose.

If it hadn't been for the zombies, maybe Rolf would never have noticed her to begin with. She was just a milkmaid, no one special. But they'd had a few weeks, at least. That counted for something.

When she found a band of survivors, they were feuding over how to divvy up the bullets they'd been toting around. Gerta was only too happy to promise that she wouldn't steal anyone else's bullets, she didn't want the responsibility of carrying them. The others bickered about it for a few minutes, but eventually agreed to let her team up with them.

They even had cereal; dry, crunchy cereal that had managed not to dissolve into powder somewhere along the way. It tasted wonderful, almost warm. Emboldened by the nourishment, Gerta finally worked up the nerve to sputter, “Have you seen Young Rolf?”

“How should I know?” one of the others responded. “Is there an Old Rolf?”

And then she started to cry, for the first time since he'd left. She clenched the cereal box close to her, as if it would warm her up, like he had once, unquestioningly.

“Oh, sweetheart,” said another survivor, “we knew you were looking for someone. Saw it in your face, I'm only surprised it took you this long to ask.”

“There's a bar—” Gerta stammered. “Five days' walk down the road—three if you run—” _If you don't have any reason to stay put._

“We've seen that one before.”

“And?” she pleaded. She had to know. In the distance, she thought she could make out a low-pitched toll, a belated funeral bell just starting to ring.

“He went into a bar owned by a zombie. The owner is good at making poisonous drinks; poor saps drink and go still. We saw corpses piled up that night. Nobody was left alive. I'm sorry.”

Gerta nodded, as the bell rang again. The past was gone; she had to move forward. “Thank you.”

“That's the watchtower,” spoke up the first of the survivors. “There's been a sighting. Can you fight?”

“Uh...”

“Doesn't matter,” interrupted another, “let's take them here! We know this territory better than they do. Might as well hold them off here!”

“All right, then,” said the first. “Grab your guns, let's charge!”

Off they charged, guns in tow. Gerta froze up. She didn't particularly want to accost any zombies, but at the same time, she didn't want to abandon the people who were protecting her. So she gathered up the food and followed at a distance, seeing them recede towards a bell tower.

The defenders up top were firing something down at the shuffling zombies, but the undead hordes were gaining on her new friends. All their careful divvying up of ammunition was doing them no good; the bullets they'd squabbled over didn't fit in the guns they clutched, and almost every shot was a misfire.

She needed to act. But how? She was too clumsy to aim, too weak to fight back. Gerta stared up at the silent bell tower, shivering in the thick snow.

And then she yelled. “Give me the gun!”

“Are you crazy?” another human called back.

“I need the gun.”

“I'm out of bullets!” a second shouted.

“Okay, so you have nothing left to lose. Just hand it over.”

Dubiously, he did so, and fell back as a zombie chased him. Gerta held the gun in her hands. It felt powerful, dangerous. She might have been holding it backwards. She wasn't sure. If it was out of bullets, it didn't matter, right?

Holding it out, she swung with all her might—and smashed the gun into the bell tower.

“What are you doing?” someone screamed.

“Look out below!” Gerta jumped backwards, as a row of icicles fell, one impaling a zombie that twitched as it hit the snow. She grabbed another, which had splintered into a smaller point—a makeshift ice pick. “Let's see how the zombies like _this_.”

And all of a sudden, it was the others following her, ice picks in hand, and the zombies who were on the run. But not for long. Though it was scary to fight at close range, the zombies were vulnerable when stabbed through the chest, and it seemed to be only the melting ice rubbing off in Gerta's hands, rather than any zombie poisons. A few zombies got away, but many more collapsed in the snow, the ice picks striking home even when bullets might miss.

“Thank you,” one of the humans finally said, once the threat was lifted. “That was brilliant.”

Gerta shrugged. “I'm just doing my best. I'm a horrible shot, there was no way the gun would do me any good. Do you want it back? I hope I didn't break it.”

“Yes, please. But maybe we should work on constructing more ice picks, if the weather stays cold like this.”

“I agree.” Somehow it felt less intimidating, using nature's weapons to destroy something so unnatural. The guns still felt wrong in her hands.

But they let her carry them, for a change, toting all the firearms behind her as they gathered icicles. Some trusted to whatever taper they could find; others gently scraped the edges, honing the icicles to a fine point and balancing them in their hands, gauging the best distance to strike.

Could the zombies communicate to each other, relay the strategy? It didn't seem likely. And yet, by the time the next attack came, they seemed to have adapted to the humans' strategies. They shuffled back rather than let the ice picks get too close, and it was only the grim stances of the longer weapons that parried the zombies' dangling arms and, nimbly striking with quick steps, pushed them further and further away. Gerta had been struck on one arm, defending herself; while she was able to wedge her way into the creature attacking her and effectively disable it, the injury was still sore. She wasn't infected, of course—but if the fight hadn't ended when it did, one remaining icicle splintering as it was hurled, javelin-style, at a retreating zombie—she didn't think she could have fought much longer.

They slept fitfully, that night, huddled together in their bulky layers. It was not, technically, too cold to snow, but one certainly could have been forgiven for reaching that conclusion.

And then, they were awoken under the stars, after just a few hours. Gerta fumbled for the useless gun bag, trying to figure out whether someone had shaken her awake. What had...oh. Of course. The alarm bells had started to ring.

“Let's run! They can follow a big cluster, but we could make it if we split up. They can't follow everyone through snow. But we'll have to move fast, or chill with the angels—at best,” someone stammered. The alarm bell stopped, and Gerta had to squint to make out the zombies on the horizon. Too many to fight at once, especially in their weakened condition.

“Hide,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Get low to the ground.” She began waving her arms, burrowing deeper into the snow. “They don't know we're here. Maybe they'll leave us alone.”

“They heard the alarms!”

“There is that. But...I don't know. Maybe they'll _think_ we ran. Or that reinforcements are on the way?”

“I like the digging plan better myself,” someone else said, worming his way under covers.

Gerta felt the warmth spread to her extremities as she kept moving, staying low to the ground, but moving her fingers and toes. Maybe she didn't need so many layers. Maybe...

There wasn't going to be much time. The zombies, having huddled around the tower but finding no one, were gaining on them. Someone behind her was reaching for the guns, little good those would do anymore. Gerta reached for her coat—no sense jeopardizing the others'—held it, and paused.

It wouldn't be snowy forever, she told herself. One day, summer would come back.

And she ripped the hem of the coat until it tattered, unfolding and dragging behind her, on the ground. Then she rose, advancing one step towards the zombies.

“Ugggh,” she muttered. Maybe she should have tried to find out earlier, whether they were of the “ugggh” or the “brains” dialect. That was what she got for not trying to communicate with the enemy. Oh well.

“Ggg?” replied another zombie. In the darkness, she was barely more distinct than they were. And with the tattered clothes, it might have been enough of a disguise.

“Kkr,” she said, pointing into the distance, “Kkkr, krr, _krr_ , krkrkr. Ggg.”

“Nmmm.” One pointed down, to the other humans, hiding amid the snowdrifts.

“Kpt.” She waved a hand in front of her neck, although she didn't expect them to be able to see. Pointing again to the horizon, she repeated, “Ggg.”

“Ggg,” agreed the first. “Pbbb?”

“Pb,” she said, reluctantly, shooing the others forward. Gradually, they began to retreat; she took a few more steps, so it would look like she was tagging along.

Then there was a gun at the back of her head. “Did they turn you?” someone hissed.

“Just an act,” she said. “Drop that.”

“It's out of bullets.” 

“I know.”

“Thank you,” added another human, rising from her hiding place, “once again.”

“Of course,” said Gerta. “I'd rather not fight. And there were too many, that time.”

“Is the coast clear?” another voice called. It must have been the lookout in the tower, come down to change shifts. “They seem to be retreating. What did you do?”

“Gerta here talked them off,” said the human with the (recently-lowered) gun, “she's a softie, deep down.”

“Gerta?”

“ _Rolf_?!”

It was him, sprinting from the tower to her, grabbing her and kissing her on the cheek that suddenly, impossibly, surged with warmth.

“You're alive?”

“Of course! You're the innovator I've heard so much about?”

“But...I heard...poison?”

“Yes,” said one of the other survivors, “we thought everyone at that bar was dead?”

“Oh.” Rolf scratched his head. “Er. Well, I was sort of in a rush to get back to you, you know—they gave me a drink, but I wolfed it down.”

“The zombies are used to snow, fighting with ice...they could have put poison in the water they froze to make the ice cubes. Everyone who drank leisurely would have the ice melt, and the poison seep through. But if you were fast enough, you might not notice any ill effects.”

“I got disoriented. Went the wrong way, and by the time I came back to the rendezvous point, you were gone.”

“I'm sorry,” Gerta stammered, “I thought—”

“You're brilliant,” Rolf said, “don't apologize. I found you here, didn't I? Well, you found me, I suppose...”

“It doesn't matter. You're here, and I love you.”

“And I love you, especially the way your brains got us out of all that—well, I'd love your brains either way, but—er—under the circumstances—that is. Do you need a coat? Yours seems a bit worn out.”

“Don't you want it?”

“I have you to keep me warm,” said Rolf, hugging her tighter, and a swap was appropriately arranged.

“Now what?” asked another survivor.

“I don't think the zombies will be bothering us here again,” said Rolf. “We can rest up, get a little stronger—and when we're ready, I saw some signs of life, past the bar. Or up from the tower, you can get a better view. We'll move on, find some others. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Gerta nodded. “By spring.”


End file.
